


Briser la Glace

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: "It’s only as Harry lies there in his drenched boxers—his body pressed against his half-naked, hypothermic ex-girlfriend— that he actually contemplates how his life has gotten to this point." (Harry/Ginny Valentine's Day Fest 2019.) For Hedwig, on her birthday.





	Briser la Glace

**Author's Note:**

> This was specifically requested by Pregwidge (my adorable Harry Potter BFF), and I *promised* I'd have it for her birthday...which is in two hours! :D I really hope this lives up to your expectations, Boo-- and that you will see my 20k words (?!?!) worth of love. 
> 
> HUGE thank you to Hills (my amazing, perfect beta) for putting up with my needy demands for re-reads! You are THE BEST, and I *always* trust you with my word babies!

Ginny reckons Harry Potter has a lot to do with her current distaste for Valentine’s Day.

After all, her eleventh Valentine’s Day had marked her first real rejection, hadn’t it? Ginny doesn’t harbor much embarrassment over that incident, but all the same, that’s the type of thing that follows a girl. She’s still reminded of said incident on every anniversary of the occasion, and at the ripe old age of 17, Ginny’s still rather confused about why the holiday even exists. Truth be told, she’s yet to experience a Valentine’s Day that proves the whole thing is deserving of even the world’s worst prepubescent poetry.

Besides, pink clashes horribly with her hair. And she’s never cared much for hearts.

But most importantly, it’s the one day of the year she really, truly can’t ignore that she isn’t _with_ the person who contributed to her dislike for the holiday in the first place.

 Which ( _of course_ ) is why she really hates today. Even if she’ll never admit it.

Ginny’s dreaded the approach of February 14th for weeks. It’s a day she’d sooner disregard, one she’d prefer didn’t exist. She has quite lovely plans, actually, to return to the seventh year girls’ dorm and hide under her blankets and stuff her face with chocolate while the rest of the school celebrates how _in love_ they are. She’s confident she’ll feel better when the day is over; it’s just one of those things she simply has to endure— and luckily (or unluckily), Ginny Weasley is rather _known_ for her endurance.

Nevertheless, she takes a bit of vindictive satisfaction when the day finally dawns cold and miserable; at least the weather won’t make celebrations particularly easy, will it? _No_...an expression of grim amusement settles on her face as she marches down to the Great Hall with Hermione. The other students will need to trudge through the wind and snow to get to Hogsmeade— which sounds thoroughly dreadful, by anyone’s estimations. Cold weather has never been Ginny’s idea of fun. She’d much prefer a beach, or a lovely spring day, or a clear, open sky. Who’d decided _February_ , of all the months, would be good for dating?

Ginny feels marginally better as she tucks into her breakfast. The ceiling in the Great Hall confirms her suspicions; it’s absolutely _awful_ outside. Only a fool would head into that blustery, frigid snowscape merely for the sake of it. Hermione is one such fool, of course— but Ginny can’t really _blame_ her, as hard as she tries. Hermione’s positively beaming, nearly bouncing in her seat, thrilled to bits at the thought of seeing _her boyfriend_ for the first time in several months.

If Ginny were in a better mood, Hermione’s attitude might even be contagious. As it stands, though, she’s struggling to give her a thin-lipped smile. What Ginny refuses to share with her friend (although what Hermione _surely_ knows, by now) is that she’d give nearly anything to be heading to Hogsmeade, too...which makes Hermione more than a little tactless, if Ginny’s being honest.

Not that she particularly _blames_ her. 

Because as much as she tries to deny it, it’s not lost on Ginny that today _should_ be filled with exhilarated happiness. She _should_ be celebrating her first Valentine’s Day with her boyfriend, the one who’d recently conquered the most encompassing darkness the world has ever seen. But dwelling on _what could have been_ makes her feel like she’s suddenly thirteen years old again and waiting for Harry to provide anything beyond conversational pleasantries.

She glances over at Hermione, is clapping her hands in delight as she opens the _third_ parcel that Ron has sent her in the past ten minutes. Ginny marvels that, for once, _she_ is the sensible one, and Hermione Granger (of all people!) is the one too besotted to think rationally.

Ginny’s really not sure what to make of that— what to make of _any_ of this. So she just lets out a frustrated huff and scrapes some bacon onto her plate.

She’s not really sure how to reconcile these feelings that are warring in her chest. She feels defeated (because Harry doesn’t _seem_ to want a relationship). She feels pathetic (because she’s still clinging to this _stupid_ , immature hope that he’ll ever want to pursue things in an actual relationship). She feels a bit self-righteous that _she’s_ not going out in this miserable tempest (which she knows is really just bitterness masked as pride, but it’s the best she’s got).

But more than all of these, Ginny is _confused_ — truly, legitimately _lost_ in a way she’s never been, and she’s still so heartbroken and bewildered that she’s not sure she’ll ever feel much better.

If she’d been paying closer attention to her surroundings (or if she’d been focusing on _anything_ , really, apart from her own distraction and frustration) she might’ve heard the collective _ooh_ from around the Great Hall as Harry’s grey owl appeared, a letter clutched in her beak. She might’ve heard the muffled whispers that spread from one table to the next. She _might’ve_ even been able to feel Hermione giving her a swift kick from under the table to alert her of the incoming delivery, although this bit is debatable; Ginny had more or less resigned herself to ignoring all of Hermione’s antics today. 

Ginny _doesn’t_ notice any of that, though. Not even for an _instant_. And it’s not until the letter lands square in the center of her plate, sending her bacon flying in all directions, that Ginny even realizes that a dead silence has settled over the hall. 

 _Oh_.

She swallows and glances around— and she’s quite overwhelmed by what she sees. Every single neck is craned her way. Amorous couples have stopped mid-snog to gape at her. Even Flitwick has risen from his seat to get a better look— and McGonagall, herself, is so transfixed that she hasn’t bothered tugging his robes to get him to sit down. Even Nearly Headless Nick is giving Ginny a dumbfounded expression, his mouth half-opened, his brow furrowed.

And all at once, it’s too much.

It’s too, _too_ much.

Ginny’s face flushes, her heart pounds in her chest, and for some bizarre, indeterminate reason, she feels herself close to tears. It’s all she can do to mutter something to Hermione about “going back to the tower” before she grabs the letter in her hand, stuffs it in her robes, and leaves the hall as quickly as her legs will carry her.

She races away from the prodding stares and dumbfounded faces and charges up to Gryffindor Tower, hoping against hope that no one follows her. She’s dimly aware of the resumed conversation and noise coming from the Great Hall, but that only serves as a temporary distraction against the thundering in her skull.

_Why now? Why now? Why now?_

The question pulses through her body as she breaks into a run, clutching the letter in her pocket. Surely Harry _knows_ that today is Valentine’s Day. Surely he’s _aware_ of the types of thoughts a girl might get receiving mail from her ex-boyfriend on a day meant to celebrate love.

But as Ginny crawls through the portrait hole and races to her dormitory, she realizes she’s not quite sure she knows _anything_ about Harry Potter. Not anymore.

She lunges into her bed, drawing the curtains tightly around her, and removes the letter with a shaking hand. She stares at the messy scrawl, ignoring the way her heart jumps at the way he’s written her name, ignoring the feeling of unease that’s settled in the pit of her stomach. Somehow she knows— _just knows_ — that whatever is inside will absolutely ruin her day, just as it’s ruined her breakfast.

In retrospect, she supposes she should have gathered that everyone in the Great Hall would react like this. After all, _The Prophet_ has been rather obsessed with following every detail of Harry’s life over the past nine months. By now, _everyone_ knows every bit of minutiae about him— from his owl to his trainers to his favorite meal. If _The Prophet_ were given a heads-up that _Harry Potter_ has just sent _Ginny Weasley_ an owl, they’d have material to last them for months. Until now, Ginny had thought she’d been used to this, if only through vague association with the Arsehole Who Lived. Since returning to school this year, the press had badgered and harassed her so many times that she’d had to get a permanent hold put on incoming mail from strangers.

Ginny shifts to a cross-legged position on her bed and wryly wonders why _this letter_ has bypassed the protective enchantments. These days, she’s not so sure Harry doesn’t fit the stranger criteria.

Regardless, though, she needs to get this the hell over with, if for no other reason than proceeding with her previously-arranged plans.

_Of doing nothing._

No matter. 

Ginny draws a deep breath and slides a nail beneath the seal. She curses that her hands are still shaking as she opens the letter, curses that Harry still has this kind of pull over her. A single sweep up and down the pages tells her it’s genuine; even if Harry hadn’t signed it, he’s always written exactly how he talks— which presents a problem, because she can now hear his voice echoing in her ears as she reads the letter to herself.

_Ginny,_

_I understand if you’re mad at me, but I thought I’d mention that I’ll be in Hogsmeade today with Ron. We’ll be at Three Broomsticks._

_I’d really like to see you, ok? I’m sorry._

_Yours,_

_Harry_

The letter drops from her shaking fingers and lands on her bedding with a soft _snap_.

Ginny slams her eyes shut against the feelings rising in her chest, praying that deep breaths will help her swallow the lump in her throat. _He doesn’t mean it_ , she reminds herself. _He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t know._ She finds this oddly cleansing— this admonition that Harry has _no_ idea what the hell he’s doing when he uses words like “yours.”

After several moments, the pain finally ebbs away. Ginny opens her eyes to stare down at the letter again. She’s pleased to find that her feelings of hurt and heartbreak have been replaced by something much more familiar and decisive: _Anger_.

Yes. She’s _angry_ now, isn’t she? A twisted smile crosses her lips as a familiar rush of rage churns in the pit of her stomach. The rage tells the story of why she’s here. Of what she’s doing. Of what she’s been trying to _ignore_.

Contrary to the popular beliefs of her family and friends, Ginny doesn’t blame Harry for the fact that he’d left to defeat Voldemort. Any fool could have seen that’s something he’d needed to do. The poor boy had spent most of his life evading darkness; it was only logical that he’d eventually need to chase it. If he’d thrown all of that away, he wouldn’t be Harry. And if he weren’t _Harry_ , she wouldn’t care as much about him. Plain and simple. 

What she _does_ blame Harry for, though— and what she feels totally _justified_ in blaming him for— is his behavior since 2nd May.

Ginny prides herself on being understanding— especially when it comes to Harry. She’d understood when he’d needed to leave. She’d understood when he hadn’t sought another kiss before Bill’s wedding (although if it had been up to her, they’d have more than kissed in the first place). She’d obviously understood why he hadn’t contacted her during the year he’d been on the run. She’d even understood (albeit theoretically, at best) why he’d tried to prevent her from fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts.

But Ginny’s trademark capacity for understanding had started to run out after the battle. Even as they’d sat in the Great Hall, he’d been weird and distant— with _her_. He’d spent ample amounts of time with Ron and Hermione. He’d accepted thanks from strangers. He’d shaken the hands of nearly every wizard alive.

But he hadn’t so much as made eye contact with her. Not even once.

Ginny had foolishly expected things to improve as they’d retreated to the Burrow in the following days— but if anything, that had made things worse. He’d been kind and caring with Ron and Hermione. He’d stayed up late on several occasions with George. He’d helped her mother with a seemingly endless string of tasks. And although Ginny had felt his eyes on her almost constantly, he’d never made a _single_ move towards conversation.

So she’d taken things into her own hands.

She’d cornered him in the hallway late one night— and he’d just blushed and stammered and stared at his feet. That bit had been fine with her; Ginny had known that was just Harry’s misplaced nobility talking. He’d always been convinced he wasn’t entitled to anything, and it seemed that his relationship with her (however he chose to define it) was no exception. 

What _hadn’t_ been fine with Ginny, though, was how he’d responded when she’d shoved him against the wall and pressed her body to his. He’d drawn a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes fluttered closed...and for a brief, joyous moment, she’d actually allowed herself to believe that they’d be able to pick up where they’d left off. But then Ginny had leaned in for a kiss, and everything had come crashing down. 

“No,” he’d grunted, jerking his head away. “No. I’m...I’m _sorry_ , Ginny.”

Then he’d turned on his heel, marched away, and retreated to Ron’s room— where he’d remained for most of the following week.

But Ginny hadn’t given up. 

She’d confronted him again him a few days after Fred’s funeral— and that time, they’d actually had a brief (but glorious) snog before he’d torn himself away.

But _still_ , Ginny hadn’t given up. Because she’s a stubborn bint. And a glutton for punishment.

The next day, she’d chased him down at Grimmauld Place and demanded some answers, but he hadn’t given her much beyond repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_.”

Ginny had spent the next hour explaining herself— in explicit detail. She’d noted that she’d missed him. That she hadn’t blamed him for leaving. That she hadn’t blamed him for _anything_ , really, except ignoring her since the battle. That life at Hogwarts had been awful without him. 

But Harry hadn’t cared for a single word of it. He’d stared at the floor, arms crossed over his chest, flinching occasionally if she’d reveal something particularly deep-seated. When Ginny had finally looked up after she’d finished recounting what had happened at Hogwarts in his absence, she saw that Harry’s face had gone white as sheet, his fist clenched in rage.

In that moment, Ginny had realized two things: One, that she _definitely_ shouldn’t have told him that. And two, that she was in love with him. (Deep down, she’d probably known this before...but she hadn’t permitted herself to dwell on something that might never come to pass if he’d done something stupid and noble. Like _dying_.)

_Fuck._

Perhaps the second realization— that she is in love with him, and likely always _will_ be—was what had lead her to backing the hell off. She’d _said_ her piece. She’d spelled out her feelings. She’d laid herself bare. In response? Harry hadn’t said a bloody _word_...and there were few things Ginny hated more than feeling vulnerable.

Then he’d left for Australia with Ron and Hermione, and by the time he’d come back, it had been time for him to begin Auror training. She’d secretly thought he might’ve extended the trip to avoid her even more, but that was one of those things she couldn’t exactly prove. They’d seen each other exactly once (on her 17th birthday) and he’d given her a pair of expensive chaser gloves. Apparently he’d heard (through the bloody grapevine of _Ron_ , she’s sure) that she’d been made captain.

But still, he hadn’t said a bloody _word._ And for the first time, neither had she.

Ginny had tried to ignore the sound of her breaking heart as they’d gone to their respective locations, even though she’d felt miserable. Rejected. _Incomplete_. And she thinks it would’ve been a bit easier to heal from whatever the hell _that_ had been if the press hadn’t started hounding her around the time she’d returned to school. Ginny soon lost count of the number of times she’d been harassed about everything from the details of her and Harry’s “relationship” to the patterns on his boxers (not that _she’d_ bloody know).

As she’d suspected, she’d had to see him at Christmas. Harry had been a staple of her family for almost as long as she could remember. _Not_ having him there would have been weirder than the alternative, even if watching his eyes fill with lust and longing in her presence was almost too much for her to bear. By Christmas, though, she’d been much more resigned. She’d found herself tired of moping over someone who wouldn’t take the slightest bit of initiative, even if the quaffle had never _been_ more clearly in his bloody court.

They hadn’t directly interacted over the hols— not even once. This had only fossilized her bubbling feelings of bitterness and sorrow. She’d given him a handmade card for Christmas and some chocolate. He’d given her more expensive quidditch equipment, and unbelievably, the world had kept spinning...until this morning. When everything had come to a complete halt.

The door to the dormitory opens, jolting Ginny from her thoughts.

“Ginny?” Hermione’s tentative voice calls from beside her bed. She knows Hermione thinks she’s afraid. Or sad. Or volatile. And while all of those might be true, Ginny is also filled with something else: _Determination_.

A wry smile crosses her lips as newfound purpose pounds in her heart. She knows, now, that she won’t be spending the day moping. She won’t be hiding from her feelings or pretending they don’t exist. Instead, she will seize this opportunity to _confront_ Harry Potter, dammit— and if he finally feels like talking? _Even better._  

Ginny pulls back the curtains. Hermione’s standing by the side of her bed, biting her lip and wringing her hands. _Oh_. Now Ginny feels a twinge of remorse, too, on top of everything else. Hermione’s come all the way up here— for her!— when she should be headed to Hogsmeade by now...

As such, Ginny knows she can’t waste a single second...not when they’ve got _plans_. She gives Hermione a reassuring smile.

“Would you mind if I tagged along to Hogsmeade after all?”

*

Several minutes later, the two of them emerge from Gryffindor Tower. By now, Hermione’s absolutely brimming with excitement, which doesn’t help much; Ginny’s certain that her friend is looking into this _far_ more than The Wanker Who Lived, himself. To emphasize this point, Ginny had changed out of the joggers she’d worn under her robes— not that she has any intention of letting Harry _see_ anything beneath her robes, but it’s the mindset that counts.

As such, she’s now dressed in black from head to toe, from her bra to her socks. Ginny refuses to even vaguely project that she might be celebrating through dressing in brightly-colored clothes or accessories— and she wants to make that point _known_ , dammit, if it’s the last bloody thing she does. She might’ve agreed to go to Hogsmeade to see Harry, but she couldn’t possibly be any further from going on a date. Hermione had observed her rapid wardrobe shift— her black t-shirt and jeans, her black bra and knicker set, her black socks, her black traveling cloak— and jokingly asked if she’d been preparing for a funeral.

Hermione clearly hadn’t been expecting Ginny to cock her head thoughtfully and note, “ _Yeah_ , actually.”

Ginny can’t help that she’s still fuming a bit as they stride downstairs. The ridiculous wording of the letter keeps rolling around in her mind, taunting her ( _Yours, Harry._ **_Yours_** _)._ She’s so indignant, so caught in a bloody _Harry Potter strop_ , that it takes passing by a particularly drafty window for Ginny to realize she’s not dressed warmly enough at all.

Which means for once in her life, she’s sacrificed practicality for appearance 

 _Shit._  

She pauses, mid-step, tempted to turn around and grab another jumper from her room...but then the words _Yours, Harry_ cross her mind again, and she reckons she won’t need warmer clothing, after all. The rage that’s slowly spreading through her chest is bound to provide a bit of extra insulation against the elements. 

Ginny’s positively seething as she and Hermione stride out the castle amongst the red and pink throngs of happy couples and ecstatic grins and _so many_ goddamn pink hearts that she can hardly breathe.

Hermione’s nonstop babbling at her side is (of course) only making things worse. Her red turtleneck is poking out from her cloak and her cheeks are warmed in a such a beautiful pinkish glow that one might suspect she’d just returned from a tropical holiday. She’s also gloating to anyone who asks that her _boyfriend_ , Ron Weasley, sent her a number of gifts to celebrate their first Valentine’s Day as a disgustingly happy couple who will _definitely_ shag on any given surface as soon as someone leaves the room.

Hermione has never vocalized that last bit, but Ginny nonetheless knows it’s true.

 _Yours, Harry._ Ginny’s face contorts into a glare. _Yours_. And when had he been _hers_ , exactly? She shakes her head. Certainly not anytime over the past year. Certainly not since he’d killed bloody _Voldemort_. Certainly not since he’d decided remaining single was more desirable than rekindling anything they’d had.

Ginny knows that bit isn’t fair, even as it crosses her mind. But it’s all she’s got.

“Almost _here_!” Hermione trills, jerking her back to present, and it’s only then that Ginny realizes she’s ignored her for the entirety of the trek to the village.

That brewing guilt simmers to the surface again. Her New Year’s resolution had been to not let her feelings for Harry impact her interactions around everyone else— and so far, this has been an abysmal failure. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem like Hermione’s noticed. She’s nearly skipping with delight as they get closer and closer to the Three Broomsticks, and Ginny sees a sudden upside to the aspect of Hermione’s personality which makes it hard for her to _read her_ _bloody audience."_

Hermione practically breaks into a run as they approach the door, scarcely remembering to hold it open for Ginny as she pushes into the pub. Ginny catches the heavy wood panel just in time to avoid hitting herself in the face...and with a swooping sensation in her stomach (one she’s not sure she’ll _ever_ stop having), she finally lays eyes on him. 

_The bloody wanker._

Harry’s sitting in the corner of the pub looking distinctly perturbed as he inches further and further away from the writhing, wriggling mass that is _RonandHermione_ (one word). 

Ginny groans and rolls her eyes. If this is a sign of how today’s going to go, she thinks she might be better off turning around...but then Harry catches her eye— _actually catches her eye!_ — and something in his face makes her pause. He gives her a soft smile followed by apologetic shrug towards the _RonandHermione_ mass. _Oh, making eye contact now, are we_? She thinks bitterly, her eyes narrowing, and almost as if Harry can read her mind, he ducks his head and stares down at the table.

This gives Ginny an odd feeling of satisfaction. At least he’s _lookin_ g guilty...as well he should. _Good_. If Harry wants to talk, she’ll damn well make sure she _listens_ — if only to satisfy the morbid curiosity that has also sprung within her at the notion that he’d written a letter in the first place. While Ginny doesn’t harbor any delusions about him suddenly desiring a relationship after he’s rather blatantly cast her aside, she also knows she won’t _really_ get over this until she’s allowed to give him the verbal lashing he deserves.

So Ginny squares her shoulders and marches towards the little corner table, more determined than ever to let him have it.

But she’s going to play it cool. Or die trying.

She slides in across from Harry, casually as you please, and clears her throat rather loudly in the direction of the _RonandHermione_ cloud, which is only growing more and more indecipherable as the time ticks on. But Ginny’s never been the patient sort. She ignores Harry’s eyes on her and gives a swift kick beneath the table in her brother’s general direction. Ron lets out a startled cry and pulls himself away from Hermione, and honest to God, it’s only then he even notices she’s there. 

 _Brilliant._  

“Oh hey!” Ron says, his face somewhere caught somewhere between a grimace and a grin.

“Hey yourself,” Ginny replies coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. For once, Hermione has the modesty to blush as she removes herself from Ron’s arms and scurries over to Ginny’s side of the table.

Ron clears his throat and sits down next to Harry, and Ginny does her hardest to ignore the disgustingly gobsmacked expression across his face. _Prat_.

“I uh…” Ron pauses, taking a sip of water. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it!”

She sees Harry stir in interest from her periphery but merely responds to her brother with a forced smile. 

“Oh I wasn’t sure of that, either!” she says, hoping Harry catches her lofty tone. “But I’d _never_ miss the chance to see _you_ , Ron. You _are_ my favorite brother, after all!”

Ron gives her a confused look, but she can tell by the way Harry’s shifting his weight that he’s gotten the picture. _Good_.

“Besides,” she adds brightly, picking up a menu. “I would have been in the area, regardless.” Ginny lets out another forced laugh— and as she does it, she knows she’s powerless to stop the next words from crawling out of her mouth. It’s like she’s been possessed by some sort of verbal vomit that slips past her lips more quickly than she can stop it...

“I had Valentine’s plans in the area, actually,” Ginny says, though her heart breaks with how _fucking pathetic_ she sounds. ”I just thought I’d, know you. Pay a visit to my favorite brother on my way!” She finishes with a dazzling smile as Hermione slumps and lets out a groan.

What she’s said isn’t a _technical_ lie— but it’s misleading, at best; Ginny absolutely intends to go to Honeydukes to get sweets for her _own_ Valentine’s Day plans. Hermione knows full well what Ginny _actually_ plans to do today, but for once, she isn’t sharing every piece of information she knows. Ginny gives Hermione a grateful smile and vows to forgive her for her earlier lack of tact.

Somehow, though, Ginny also finds she doesn’t mind the implications of what she’s said— even though her words were designed to stir controversy in a way she’d long ago sworn she’d _never_ do. If there’s anyone alive capable of making her catty, she decides, it’s Harry Potter.

Nevertheless, something in the air has shifted between the four of them. It feels charged, _heated_ all of a sudden, like one little spark might—

“Ginny,” Harry blurts, his voice gruff. She looks up from her menu and meets his heated stare. _Fuck_. His eyes are doing that staring-penetrating-pulsing thing, the one she remembers so well from their days spent by the lake.

He takes a deep breath and begins again. “Would you like to...talk with me outside?” 

There’s an audible sigh of relief from both Ron and Hermione. Ginny arches an eyebrow and debates her options. She could remain in here and endure a thoroughly awkward lunch— with three other people who would clearly rather be doing literally _anything_ else. Or she could take Harry up on his offer, hear what the hell he’s decided _is so important_ , and do her best to move on with her life. 

And in a decision that ends up changing the progression of the rest of her life, Ginny chooses the latter option.

“ _Fine_ ,” she says, hoping she sounds more indifferent than she feels. Hermione immediately budges over to let her out of the booth— but if this is out of haste to avoid the situation or eagerness to snog Ron, Ginny doesn’t know. Ron stands to let Harry out of his side just as Ginny stands and straightens her robes.

“We’ll order you something to eat,” promises Hermione, picking up Ginny’s abandoned menu.

Ron stretches out beside his girlfriend on the bench. “But feel free to take your time!” he says, winking, and Harry and Ginny groan in disgusted unison.

Out of habit, they pause and stare at each other— and it turns into one of those weird moments again, one where she knows _exactly_ what he’s thinking. Under normal circumstances, this is the type of thing they’d laugh about, the type of thing they’d commiserate over.

But these are not normal circumstances. And she has no time for games. 

Ginny curtly jerks her head towards the door. “Shall we?”

Harry nods and gestures in front of him, and Ginny begins striding towards the exit. She’s more than a little annoyed that she’s allowed butterflies to sprout in the pit of her stomach from the boldness of his request. And from the boldness of his letter in the first place. And that she’s permitted herself to stare into the depths of his eyes.

But nonetheless, she’s gotten what she wanted, hasn’t she? _Yes_. Ginny sets her jaw and approaches the heavy wooden door. At the very least, she knows she’ll _finally_ get an explanation— even if Harry couldn’t possibly have picked a more depressing occasion to decide to speak to her again.

She holds the door open for Harry and steps outside, and as she does, an icy gust of wind shoots clear through her cloak. It’s the type of wind that cuts straight through you, the type that immediately belies any half-arsed wardrobe choices, regardless of how appropriate said clothing may have seemed at the time.

 _Bugger_. Ginny shudders as she crunches onto the snowy street; the temperature’s dropped rather significantly since they’ve been inside. She glances over at Harry, who’s hunched over himself, hands in his pockets. At least he’s a bit more dressed for the weather. He appears to be wearing a coat beneath his robes, and she reckons he’s probably wearing a jumper under that, too.

For a moment, Ginny mentally berates herself for being _too bloody furious_ to plan her attire correctly— especially when it comes to someone who clearly hasn’t experienced a similar loss of focus when it’s come to meeting _her_. But then she turns to face Harry...and though she’s loath to admit it, she knows he looks _unfairly handsome_ as his eyes and hair pop against the slowly swirling snow. 

He clears his throat and gestures up the path. “Would you like to uh...take a walk?”

Ginny shrugs. Truthfully, she’s rather cold— but she also feels like she deserves an explanation, regardless of the scenery.

“ _Sure_ ,” she replies stiffly. “ _Why not_?”

Harry shuffles a bit and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I’m not...interrupting your plans?” He ends on a slightly higher pitch, like he legitimately expects an answer— and for some reason, this makes Ginny even angrier. How _dare_ he look like a hopeful, adorable puppy?

She shakes her head and begins heading up the street. As furious as she is, as frustrated as she feels, she nonetheless knows she needs to put her cards on the table. What she’d said in the pub had been _ridiculous_ — even for her.

“ _Not really_ ,” she confesses, tucking her hair behind her ear. She hates that she needs to admit this, hates that it’s gotten to this point. “I think Honeydukes is open til quite late, so…” 

“ _Oh!_ ” Harry barks out a relieved little laugh, like some modicum of stress has been lifted from his shoulders. _Well_ , _at least_ he’s _happy_. Ginny glares at the snow clumping around her trainers and wonders if the universe will _ever_ repay her for doing the right thing.

“So, uh…” Harry begins in a timid voice as they continuing striding up the street. Ginny’s dimly aware that their shoulders would be touching if she hadn’t distanced herself. “How’ve you been?”

She snorts before she can help it— and detests that she feels her carefully-controlled composure already beginning to slip. She manages to get it together just in time, but she’s honestly not sure how long that will last. “Oh, I’ve been brilliant, Harry,” she says, refusing to meet his gaze. “Absolutely _brilliant_.”

He clears his throat awkwardly, which gives her an odd surge of satisfaction. “ _Yeah_ …” he agrees, head downcast. “Things haven’t…” Harry trails off, and it almost sounds like he’s swallowing a lump in his throat. “Things haven’t been so great for me, either.”

Ginny rolls her eyes and suppresses a bitter laugh just in time. Oh, _his_ life has been difficult, has it? Miraculous, that, since _he’s_ not the one who's been rejected to the point of mortification...

“But um,” Harry starts again as they pass the last shop on the cobblestoned street. Ginny’s sure she’s never been this far into the outskirts of Hogsmeade. “I guess I just…” He sighs. “I guess I just...I owe you an explanation,” he adds, with a hopeful glance in her direction. “And I wanted to _see_ if you’d like to—“

But that— _right there_ — is when every last bit of her resolve finally snaps. She doesn’t wait for him to finish speaking. She doesn’t wait for him to explain. She doesn’t need him to clarify his desires— not now. What she _needs_ is an apology, which he still hasn’t provided. It’s like every ounce of rage and disappointment and humiliation and heartache she’s ever experienced has suddenly transformed itself into one Harry Potter-shaped blob...and she’ll be _damned_ if she’s able to stop this pent-up explosion from reaching critical mass.

Not this time.

“Oh!” Ginny croons, clasping her hands together. “ _Harry Potter_ wants to see if _I_ want to do something!” She bats her eyes. “Well, I’ll just have to make sure to clear my schedule then, won’t I?”

Harry winces as they stomp deeper into the mounting snow on the unplowed path— and for some reason, this just enrages her even more.

“Harry _Potter_ ,” she seethes, “wants to _talk_! To _me_ , of all people!” She lets out a humorless laugh. “And on Valentine’s Day, no less! Because we _all_ know that’s the best day to attempt to reconnect with your ex-girlfriend after you’ve spent most of the last year _stomping her bloody heart on the ground_!”

Ginny tears away. _Fuck._ She hadn’t meant to vocalize that last bit. She’d rather Harry not know the details of exactly how much damage he’s done— of exactly how many nights she’s spent trying to pretend her feelings don’t exist.

No matter. 

She continues her determined pilgrimage to...wherever the hell they're going. Apparently, they’ve headed up a winding, snowy path, and if she squints into the distance, she can just make out a domed enclosure next to a copse of trees. _Fine_. That seems like a good destination. She reckons she’s too bitter now to stop moving, anyway.

Harry shuffles along behind her as she lengthens her stride, and from the simple sound of his footsteps— from the sound of his bloody _steps_!—she can tell that something she’s said has gotten through.

“ _Well_ ,” he starts again, although this time his tone carries an edge of exasperation. “I’m not exactly a well-adjusted individual, Ginny. And I’ve never expected to, you know... _go back_. To how things _were_.” 

She rolls her eyes, even though she knows she’s so far ahead that he can’t see. She loathes that part of her is still gripped with defensiveness whenever Harry degrades himself for things he can’t control—like the fact that he is, _indeed_ , quite poorly-adjusted, as far as people go. 

But Ginny also knows what Harry _can_ control, what’s well within his skillset, is how he relates to and communicates with other people ( _her_ ). And how he _allows_ these people ( _her_ ) to help him, too.  

“ _Huh_ ,” she calls over her shoulder, seized with the impulsive desire to vocalize this thought. “If only _someone_ out there perfectly understood you…”

Ginny bites her lip and cuts herself off. She’s already gone too far. She hadn’t meant to sound _quite_ so pathetic, not right away. She pauses and takes a breath to clear her mind, but unfortunately the breeze picks up, just then— and she ends up inhaling a deep mouthful of wind-blown snow.

She bends down with a cough, gripping her knees, and finds she’s not at all surprised to hear the rush of Harry’s shoes crunching towards her through the snow or the pressure of his arms resting on her back as she catches her breath. Ginny would never admit it, but _fuck_ , that’s comforting, isn’t it? The way he’s holding her like that? 

After a few shaky breaths, she stands again, wiping her mouth on her hand, and peers up at him. Harry’s brow is creased with concern, his mouth drawn in a thin line...and for just a moment, Ginny allows herself to pretend that he actually feels the same way about her as she feels about him.

Then she shudders, pulling herself away. _No_. That’s unfair... _so_ unfair. She hates it when her mind plays tricks like that. Why has she _always_ permitted herself to do this?

She finds it easy to shoot a glare in Harry’s direction as she straightens herself and continues towards the trees, growing more frustrated as she does.

“Are...are you ok?” Harry asks, catching up to her in two quick steps. Ginny rolls her eyes... _now_ he cares if she’s ok.

“ _Fine_ ,” she says, sniffing. And then, on a whim: “ _Fucking confused_. But physically? I’m fine.”

 _Ugh_. Will she _ever_ learn to hold her damn tongue?

“Why are...why are you confused?” Harry asks, his voice so tentative that she knows he’s afraid of the answer.

It seems she’s actually going to have to spell this out.

“ _Because_ , Harry” she explains slowly, her eyes focused straight ahead.“You’ve already made it abundantly clear that you don’t want a relationship. Which is fine, really,” she adds, lying through her teeth. “You don’t want to be with me? _Fine_.” She shrugs and continues walking, but catches a glimpse of a frown on his face.

“But what I can’t wrap my head around, no matter how hard I try,” she continues, “is how it’s possible for you to be attracted to me— and I _know_ you are, so there’s no use denying that.” Her eyes flit to his face for confirmation, but a darker just look steals across his features.

“I’d assumed as much,” she sniffs, trudging forward. “I’d _assumed_ as bloody much, Harry. And I wish I could say it gives me a little bit of pleasure to admit that— but it doesn’t. And you know why?” She turns to him, well aware she’s working herself into quite a strop. “Because you still treat me like I’m someone you need to hide from! You _insist_ on keeping these bloody secrets, on holding me as far away as you can, on—” 

“—What? _That’s_ not fair, Ginny,” Harry interrupts, and she’s surprised that his voice contains some degree of ire. “You don’t know the whole story. You don’t even know why—”

But her patience has finally reached a boiling point. 

“THEN EXPLAIN!” she shouts, throwing her hands into the air. “ _FUCKING EXPLAIN_! You’ve all the time in the world, Harry! You’ve got a _captive audience_!”

Ginny turns to give him a sharp glare— but the look on his face takes her aback, removes some of the wind from her sails.

 _Oh_...she swallows. He’s _mad_. 

She turns and keeps walking towards the entrance of the dome— which she now sees is a _cave_. Ginny’s not totally sure what to do with this new development, but a weird part of her thrills that (at least on the surface) Harry is _finally_ expressing how he feels. He’d once worn a frown, but now it’s morphed into an all-consuming glare; his jaw is set so tightly that his lips are in a firm white line, his eyes dark are dark and narrow, and even through his gloves, his fists are clenched at his sides.

Even though he’s _fuming_ , Harry he doesn’t say a word...and Ginny’s not totally sure if it’s because he’s gathering his thoughts, or because he doesn’t know how to describe these thoughts in the first place. 

And either option is annoying, really. 

Ginny shakes her head and steps into the mouth of the cave. She’s pleased that it’s a bit warmer in here, at the very least...or perhaps it’s just better insulated from the wind. 

Harry sighs again as he follows her inside, and Ginny hates the way that sigh sounds. It’s like he’s almost _afraid_ to share what he thinks, like he doesn’t think he deserves to have feelings, which is fucking _ridiculous_. 

She steps in a bit further to put a greater distance between them.

“I’m _sorry_ , ok?” he says, clearly exasperated. “I’m _sorry_ , Ginny, that I’ve confused you.” He lets out an indignant huff, searching her face, and then—seemingly apropos of nothing— he removes the traveling cloak from his shoulders.

“You look cold,” he offers, as if that explains anything. “So I thought you might—“ He gestures towards the cloak.

She just blinks at him, growing even more perplexed.

Harry groans and tosses the cloak to the side. “Nevermind,” he says bitterly, starting to pace. “Forget I said anything. Instead, we’ll _both_ be cold, seems like a great solution…” 

Ginny just sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. _Fuck_ , he’s so noble...only Harry would be worried about her bloody comfort, even inside a frozen cave. This realization is one that produces an unpleasant squeezing sensation in the center of her chest, so Ginny chooses to ignore it...and to comment on his apology instead.

“Well, Harry,” she says cooly. “As much as I appreciate your apology, I need to know what you’re actually sorry _for_. Because honestly? I’m not sure _you_ know.”

There’s another beat of silence. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets again and just stares down at the snow. Ginny lets out a frustrated moan and throws her hands in the air. What a fucking _waste_. She should’ve known better, she thinks, than to expect an _actual_ apology...one that’s concrete or meaningful or specific.

“And that right there,” she says with a furious wave of her hand, “is why I never know what the hell to do with you. Why I’m so fucking _conf—_ “

“ _I’M FUCKING TRYING_!” He suddenly bellows, his voice echoing against the walls of the cave. “I’m TRYING to figure out how to explain, ok?” he adds, running his hands through his hair. “But it’s not _easy_ , Ginny— I’m not _good_ at shit like this!”

He vaguely gestures to the space between them, but this isn’t enough for her.

“It’s hard for EVERYONE, Harry!” she cries back, feeling what little composure she’d had before beginning to snap. “But we all LEARN! We all TRY— you just try a little less!”

Harry clenches his jaw and swallows, but does nothing to deny it.

“For fuck’s _sake_!” Ginny starts to pace where she stands. “Do you have any idea how _miserable_ it is? How much I’m _reminded_ of you? How I see you _everywhere_?”

Harry opens his mouth— perhaps to object— but she hardly sees him over the red clouding her vision.

Ginny extends a pointed forefinger in his direction. “And don’t even get me _started_ on the reporters,” she seethes. “Those _fucking_ reporters. They harassed me, sent me letters every damn day, demanded answers to questions I don’t know— because you’ve never bloody _let me_ know!”

By now she’s nearly panting with rage, and she’s vaguely aware that she’s more emotional than she’s allowed herself to be in _months_. She feels the fury building behind her eyes, pounding in her head, filling up her chest, but it’s not _enough_ , dammit. It’s this awful, claustrophobic feeling, one that has no means of release, and Ginny’s so focused on her anger, so consumed by the _injustice_ of the bloody thing, that she hardly even notices the next words that slip from her tongue. 

And she certainly, _certainly_ doesn’t notice the ominous crackling sounds coming from beneath her feet. Or the way the ground has started to shift a bit. She watches Harry’s back stiffen as he gives a cautious glance around, but she doesn’t have time to analyze any of that. 

“You know the worst part?” she demands, whirling around to face him. “The _worst part_ , Harry, is that the press seem to be bloody aware of something that you’ve chosen to ignore!”

She takes one heated step towards him, and that’s when she sees a look of horrified recognition flit across Harry’s face. Unfortunately, whatever justification Ginny gives herself for that look is completely off the mark... 

Harry scrambles forward and tries to interject, but she isn’t done.

“ _You_ seem to be _unaware_ , Harry,” she spits, “but I’m still fucking _in lo_ —“

Ginny never finishes that thought.

For better or worse, she never gets to scream and rant and bellow like she’d wanted to do since her world had fallen apart...like she’d _deserved_ to do, really, what with her heart having been smashed to smithereens. 

Because in that instant, the ice beneath her splinters and cracks. And with a terrified shriek, Ginny plunges beneath the ice, a look of wide-eyed horror on her face.

* * *

 

Harry dives in after her without conscious thought. He doesn’t bother disrobing. He doesn’t consider leaving his wand on the side of the bank. He doesn’t ponder— even for a moment— that he should summon help before doing what needs to be done.

Because the reckless, impulsive Gryffindor blood never pounds harder through his veins than when Ginny Weasley is in danger.

He plunges beneath the surface of the lake, and the icy water engulfs him in an instant. He lets out a silent scream beneath the ice, because it’s bloody _awful_ , so much worse than he could have imagined...it’s so cold that every single one of his limbs goes numb in an instant, so cold that he feels it freezing on the way up to his chest, so cold that his brain feels slow and sluggish, utterly incapable of doing _anything_ beyond finding her.

He blinks in the murky water and pushes his glasses against his face, and it’s only _now_ he considers how much help a wand might be. Yes...a wand! _He could cast some light_ , and— but Harry pats his pocket, and realizes (in horror) that his wand is gone.

 _Fuckkkk_.

His. Wand. Is. Gone. 

It must’ve been pushed from his pocket the moment he’d jumped beneath the surface, only he’d been too cold and miserable to tell. _But no_ , he tells himself deliriously...Ginny’s still down here. And _has_ to be alive. _She has to be alive._ Harry clumsily gropes in front of his face, searching for something, _anything_ to try to find her, although his brain is becoming so tired and so heavy that he thinks it might be easier to fall asleep—

But then, in a stroke of luck, his right hand makes contact with something that’s both familiar and forbidden, and _YES_! Renewed life surges through him again. He’s grabbed her hand! _He’s found Ginny’s hand_! He grabs hold as hard as he can and kicks his feet, willing himself to ignore how limp she feels...he propels them upward and swims as hard and as fast as he can, and finally, _finally_ he sees the hole she’d slipped through, the one he’d so blindly followed her into.

 

He stares at the pale blue surface intensely, although his lungs are _bursting_ , although there are stars exploding behind his eyes, and he has a brief moment where he’s sure that both of them will drown, down here in this lake...but he keeps going, keeps _kicking_ , keeps working...and in the next instant, his head breaks through the surface of the water, Ginny’s hand still held tightly in his.

 

Harry takes a coughing, sputtering breath as oxygen fills his lungs, but adrenaline has replaced the ice in his veins. Harry grabs hold of the bank with his left hand and hoists himself up, swinging his whole body onto the stone with muscles he certainly hadn’t had this time last year.

 

He deliriously finds himself pleased that (at the very least) Ginny’s fallen into a frozen lake close to the edge of the bank. He lies on his stomach and blinks the water out of his eyes as he grabs her small, lifeless hand in both of his. The tugs as hard as he can— and in another instant, her whole body comes up as she’s buoyed by the current below.

 

Yes. She’s out. _She’s out_! A hysterical grin splits his face...but then he takes one look at her pale, lifeless form and any semblance of joy turns into panic. 

 

_Because she’s not breathing._

 

Harry lets out a horrified roar and edges Ginny further away from the lake, scooting her as deeply into the cave as he can. He tries his hardest not to think about how similar she looks to that tiny, lifeless little girl who’d lain on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets while Tom Riddle had nearly killed her, one moment at a time.

 

But Harry knows what to do; for once in his life, he’s thankful that his Auror training has included mandatory basic emergency response. At the time, he’d dismissively waved this off— when would he _ever_ be without his wand?— but now, he finally understands…

 

He kneels at her chest and thrusts his hands forward, performing the most frantic chest compressions he ever has. _Yes_. This is something he can do. This is something he _needs_ to do— he doesn’t want to think about what it would be like to live the rest of his life without seeing a flush spreading to her cheeks, without seeing her eyes twinkle with mischief…

 

Harry pauses for a moment to hold her nose closed and tilt her head back before he touches her lips to his— and he immediately realizes that this is _nothing_ like the kisses they’ve shared before. Her lips are cold. Blue. _Lifeless_.

 

 _No_. He can’t let himself go down that path. _Not now_. Instead, he focuses _all_ of his energy on tactics and protocol, on filling her lungs with the air from his. Just as Ginny’s chest swells beneath his palms, he hears a faint gurgling sound from her throat, and _yes yes yes_...this has _done_ something! For once in his life, he’s been _lucky_!Harry leans her on her side as quickly as he can, hoping that her body will be able to do the rest of the work.

 

He’s just in time. As soon as her cheek touches the cold stone, a jet of water shoots out of her mouth. She begins coughing, gagging, and he reaches forward to pull her hair away from her face.

 

“That’s right!” he says through a hysterical half-laugh, rubbing his hand up and down her back. This time, he makes no effort to stop the tears from running down his face, although they serve a much different purpose. “You’ve _got_ it, Ginny!” he cries, exuberant. “Keep going!”

 

She doesn’t need to be told.

 

She continues sputtering and hacking (just as he knows she should) and Harry thinks she’s finally turned a corner, she’s _finally_ got it— but then she collapses on top of her shaking arms and falls face-first onto the ground with a low moan.

 

 _No_.

 

He scoops her into an embrace as fast as he can, ignoring the twinges of pain as feeling returns to his own extremities. He presses her against his chest and runs his hands up and down the sides of her soaking robes. _Fuck_ , she’s cold— absolutely freezing. She’s shaking in his arms with such insistence that she’s vibrating with the effort.

 

He can tell his hands aren’t doing much, though, because now her lips have started to turn an even darker shade of blue, even as her teeth chatter.

 

“ _Shhh_ ,” he whispers, frantically pushing red hair laced with ice away from her face.

 

Then her half-lidded eyes start to flutter shut...and this is when Harry truly starts to lose his mind.

 

“ _Ginny_.” He cups her face as he presses himself against her even harder. “You’ve got to stay with me.”

 

“C-cold,” she manages, her teeth chattering. “S- _so_ cold, Harry.”

 

“I know, I _know_ ,” he pleads, kneading his hands up and down her arms as his heart pounds in his chest. “ _Fuck_. I’m so sorry. I should’ve have let you— I shouldn’t have…”

 

He’s about to babble on about how he’s _a bloody moron_ and how he should’ve known better than to assume there wasn’t a lake and how he can’t _believe_ he’s been stupid enough to let them both lose their wands in the murky, icy depths— but then he feels Ginny firmly shake her head against his chest. It’s the tiniest motion, one he might not recognize over her shivering if he didn’t know her as well as he does, but it’s nonetheless _there_ , as present as she is. Harry lets out relieved noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

 

Even scarcely conscious, even (justifiably) _furious_ at him, even half-frozen to death, Ginny would never let anyone insult him. Even if that _anyone_ is him.

 

She blinks up at him through her darkened lashes, but there’s a new weakness behind her eyes, one he’s never seen before— and in that moment, he _knows_ what he has to do... and he reckons he’ll never be able to suss out if he loves it or hates it.

 

He doesn’t have a choice though, does he? She’s fading fast, her eyelids drooping lower and lower, and he knows he has minutes, _at best_ , if she—

 

But then she stops shivering. And the choice is made for him.

 

“I’m _really_ sorry to do this,” he mutters, laying her down on the snow and peeling his soaking coat and jumper over his head. “But you’re going to have to trust me.” He tilts her pale face to meet his gaze. _Bullocks_. Her pupils are fixed and dilated, the size of saucers; only the tiniest bit of amber is visible around the rim. It’s worse than he thought…

 

“Do you trust me?” he asks with greater urgency. Ginny gives him a weary nod, but that’s a small consolation.

 

Harry darts to his cloak (which, apparently, he’d laid on the bank of a _lake_ ), and thanks _Merlin_ that he’d removed it in a botched attempt at making Ginny more comfortable. He grasps it in his right hand and runs back, his heart still hammering frantically in his chest.

 

“Stay with me, Ginny!” he commands, dropping the cloak next to her prone form as he toes off his trainers. She doesn’t look good— as much as he doesn’t want to admit that. Her skin is ashen and pale, and he’s seen far too many dead people to hold on to the false conviction that anything about her appearance is promising.

 

Harry removes his socks and shucks his soaking jumper over his head. From the ground, Ginny’s breathing is ragged, _uneven_ , and he’s more than a bit alarmed at how passive and docile she’s suddenly become. For the first time in his life, Harry sees a detriment to knowing Ginny Weasley as well as he does; if she’d been literally anyone else, he could’ve convinced himself that this...docility...was just part of her demeanor.

 

A ghost of a smile flits across his lips as he kneels down next to her; normally, she’s _anything_ but docile, isn’t she? Harry swallows. _Good_. He can focus on that— on the whole _Ginny not dying_ part— to drown out the sense of impropriety and scandal surrounding what he knows he must do...

 

And with that, Harry finds himself in the uncomfortable position of admitting to the benefit of the basic survival skills that were covered in Auror training. They hadn’t covered much beyond resuscitation, basic first aid, and how to handle hypothermia, but Harry nonetheless hears Robards’ booming voice in his head as he unbuttons his trousers: “If they’ve been submerged in cold water— and it doesn’t even need to be _that_ cold, mind,” his professor had said with a wag of his finger, “you need to strip them naked, cover them with your body, and wait for the mediwitch.”

 

The comment had earned some scattered chuckles from around the room as the trainees had promptly denied the need for such drastic measures. Now, though, as Harry kneels next to her and does his best to ignore the soul-curdling blasts of cold air coming from the mouth of the cave, he knows there’s absolutely _nothing_ funny about this.

 

_Right._

 

“I need to take off your clothes.” Harry’s voice comes out a mite harsher than he’d intended, a tad more abrasive than he’d like. He winces and considers apologizing, but then decides— for once in his life— that he really can’t blame himself for this one. After all, professional training can only extend so far when you’re telling someone you’re in love with to strip in front of you.

 

Ginny stiffens at his words, her breathing shallow, and a fresh wave panic swells again in Harry’s stomach. He leans to give her shoulder a little shake.

 

“ _Gin_ —”

 

“—ok,” she manages through blue lips. Harry slumps over with relief; he’s never been happier to hear her voice.

 

She turns to him with a bleary stare, and Harry experiences the odd sensation of his heart jumping and sinking at the same time. Just from looking into her eyes, he can tell she still _very much_ in danger. With an air of forced professionalism, Harry removes her cloak from her shoulders and throws it behind his head. It lands with a sickening plop, but Harry’s a bit too distracted by—

 

“Why in _hell_ are you only wearing a t-shirt?!” he demands, reaching down to peel the soaking garment away from where it’s ridden up her pale stomach. “ _Merlin_ , Ginny— it’s February!” He does his best to avert his eyes as he rolls the black t-shirt up and over her bra...but he can’t help but notice that her bra is also black. _Fuck_.

 

“No _wonder_ you looked cold,” he adds weakly, kneeling next to her, and perhaps it’s because he’s so...distracted...that he doesn’t notice that she suddenly seems even colder.

 

“P-please, Harry,” she chatters, her skin nearly the same color as the snow around her. “Just...make me warmer.”

 

Ginny shivers as another gust of wind soars into the cave, and he realizes he hasn’t thought this through very well at all. Now she’s shirtless, freezing, and lying on the snow. Great. _Brilliant_. What an amazing Auror he’s becoming…

 

“Hang on,” he mutters, throwing the cloak on top of her. He leaps to his feet and shucks off his remaining clothing until he’s only clad in his boxers. Just as another punishing surge of wind barrels through the cave, Harry presses his body to hers and wraps the cloak so tightly around them that they both release startled cries at the sudden sensation of warmth.

 

For several moments, there are no sounds except for the dying gusts of wind and the sound of Harry’s heart hammering in his chest. It’s only as Harry lies there in his drenched boxers—his whole body tingling as feeling returns to his limbs, his body pressed against his half-naked hypothermic ex-girlfriend as they lie on the snow-covered ground— that he actually contemplates how the hell his life has gotten to this point

 

Even if Ginny hadn’t made it clear, he’d have known that all of this was his fault. After the battle, he’d been utterly incapable of making any decision at all beyond going to Ron and Hermione. In retrospect, he supposes they’ve always represented a relatively uncomplicated source of emotional comfort— and he’d hurdled toward that comfort head-on, hadn’t he? He’d scarcely let the two of them out of his sight for the following week. He was certain the new couple hadn’t appreciated this very much, even if they’d been very accommodating of his need for physical proximity.

 

Harry had attended the funerals in a sort of guilt-ridden haze, the type he couldn’t snap out of no matter how hard he tried. It followed him everywhere like a perpetually low-hanging fog— this feeling that he didn’t deserve any of the hospitality and kindness he’d been shown since he’d been responsible for the deaths of so many people. Ron and Hermione were the only two people who’d been as isolated as he had. Perhaps subconsciously, he’d considered them just as removed and broken— the only two people who might understand a modicum of what it’s like to be isolated for the better part of a year and to somehow return at the last minute to be hailed as a hero. It was an awful sensation, this pervasive-albeit-inaccurate notion that he _deserved_ anything...and when it came to Ginny, Harry suddenly felt that he deserved the least of all.

 

He hadn’t understood it at the time, but his behavior after the battle should have been an enormous clue. On 2nd May, It had seemed logical— even practical— for him to simply stare at her from afar as she’d rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. In retrospect, though, this act of reticence had marked the beginning of something Harry hadn’t fully understood. Looking back, it made no real sense that he’d spent months thinking about Ginny, staring at her dot on the Marauder’s Map with the light from his wand, wishing he could see her (just once), _feeling_ her lips against his as he died…only to remain content with distance once the battle had actually ended.

 

Two days after the battle, he’d had every intention of initiating contact with her. He’d planned out what he was going to say. He was going to ask how her year had been, he was going to admit how much he’d missed her, he was going to share the details of what he’d been through, too. Before he’d made it downstairs to speak to Ginny, though, he’d caught a glimpse of his skinny, emaciated, bruised body in the mirror— and it was only then that Harry had realized something was very wrong….because he was broken. And she was _perfect_.

 

Honestly, if Harry had been able to dig down deeper, he could’ve accepted, right then and there, that he’d been cursed with a miserable case of survivor’s guilt— and that he definitely, _definitely_ should have trusted Ginny more than he trusted himself. But he’d still been so broken, so wracked with the horrors of what he’d seen, so unable to cope with the lives he’d lost, that he considered himself little more than a human burden— one who simply didn’t deserve to bask in Ginny’s glow.

 

To assuage some of his guilt, he’d done his best to make himself useful upon return to the Burrow. He’d volunteered for an endless stream of tasks in hopes of repairing any of the damage he’d done— and he hadn’t minded any of it, not one bit, even if none of it meant Fred was alive. Or that Teddy had parents. Or that Hogwarts would ever be the same again.

 

And around this time, Harry became increasingly aware of Ginny’s repeated attempts to catch his attention; he wasn’t _blind_ , after all. He noticed her the second she’d entered any room, but all of a sudden, it was like beauty emanated from her in waves of sunlight. And if he’d found Ginny merely _pretty_ before (which would have been an understatement), she’d seemed all the more stunning and gorgeous and _perfect_ from the moment he’d laid eyes on her again in the Room of Requirement.

 

This made things a fair bit worse if he were being honest: _Not only_ was Ginny (presumably) available. _Not only_ was she evidently interested in rekindling whatever they’d shared. _Not only_ had **he** been responsible for the death and destruction that now hung over her family like a stormcloud coming in from the sea. But now— on top of everything else— he’d finally realized (or perhaps finally _appreciated_ ) that she was more beautiful and appealing than he’d remembered, even in his most elaborate fantasies.

 

And what was _he_ , by comparison? He was splintered and damaged and weak. He was a broken little boy who’d gotten her brother killed. He was _nothing_...and he knew, in his heart, that Ginny deserved far more than _nothing_.

 

The first time she’d cornered him in the hallway, he’d been able to resist her— but only _just_. She’d been a blur of red hair and creamy skin and freckles, far too similar to the girl he’d been allowed to snog when their days were full of light and laughter. Then she’d pressed her lips to his, and almost like a band snapping, he’d been lurched back to that awful night in May with such paralyzing force it had nearly felt like travel by Portkey. Suddenly all he could see was the flash of green, the roar of a fire, the white hands gripping a gnarled wand as he left one world and got transported to the next…

 

But had Harry used the opportunity to _share_ any of that? Had he explained why he’d been ignoring her? Had he confessed that her lips were the last thing he’d thought of before he’d been ripped from the coils of the earth?

 

No.

 

Instead, he’d run away, like a complete coward.

 

As he’d sat in bed that night, he’d convinced himself that he’d made the right choice. Ginny didn’t deserve someone as scared and damaged as him. Ginny didn’t deserve someone who’d been responsible for the destruction of her entire life. Ginny _certainly_ didn’t deserve someone who hadn’t even realized she was _beautiful_ until the last possible moment. He’d been right before; she needed a future utterly unencumbered by emotional baggage from someone like _him_.

 

All of those justifications had suddenly disappeared, though, the next time she’d cornered him— but realistically, there was only so far his resolve could hold. She’d filled his senses, she’d intoxicated his brain, she’d pervaded every single element of his being...and for a few blissful moments, _he’d let her_. To this day, he often wonders how far things might’ve gone if she hadn’t whispered his name as a breathy moan.

 

 _“Harry_.”

 

But then he’d frozen, stock still, as the word had washed over him. _Harry_. She’d moaned his name just like that last year when he’d pressed kisses up and down her neck. Back before the world had collapsed. Back before he’d left her. Back before her brother had _died_.

 

And perhaps due to a combination of all of these things, he’d ripped himself back, panting, as he’d choked out an apology.

 

She’d come to see him at Grimmauld Place, although for the life of him he hadn’t understood why she’d ever want to see him again. Then she’d proceeded to explain everything that had transpired while she’d been away at school— and Harry felt like every single word she said stabbed deeper into his heart. She’d confirmed his greatest fears: Her sixth year at Hogwarts had been nothing short of _sadistic_. She’d had to endure Death Eaters as professors and she’d had to hope (and pray) that her family were safe and she’d had to witness other students being tortured, right in front of her. If she’d _blamed_ him for any of that, Harry reckons he would’ve understood...but she’d done him one better: She’d led a bloody underground resistance, all in support of a stupid little boy she’d hadn’t even been sure she’d see again.

 

All of this had solidified Harry’s moronic belief that distance from her was the most viable solution. The more he separated himself, he reckoned, the better chance she had at living a normal life. He hadn’t hesitated to go to Australia with Ron and Hermione (in a stunning reprisal of his role as Perpetual Third Wheel), but traveling halfway around the world still hadn’t enough for him to forget the sound of her soft moan.

 

When they’d returned, he’d lingered at Grimmauld Place before starting at the Auror Academy, mostly because he wanted to avoid seeing Ginny again. She had a future that was bright and brilliant, but _he_ only had a future filled with apologies and sacrifice and making amends for what he’d done. And that was that.

 

For several months, Harry has managed to convince himself that things were better this way— and for some time, this had worked. He’d thrown himself into training and done his best to ignore the little gasp (“ _Harry”)_ that occasionally popped into unrelated trains of thought.

 

Then Christmas had rolled around, and he reckons this is when everything had started to change. From the moment he’d stepped through the Floo, Harry been accosted by happy couples from wall to wall. Fleur had just announced her pregnancy, Bill had positively _glowed_ , Molly and Arthur had been thrilled to bits, and even _George_ had improved from the last time Harry had seen him. Ginny had looked gorgeous, of course— but that hadn’t been anything new.

 

But as he’d watched the closest thing he’d ever had to a family all brimming with grins and smiles and sweetness, Harry had started to feel an odd sensation prickling in the back of his mind. Over the next several weeks, this eerie tingle had gotten stronger and stronger until it had bloomed into something Harry couldn’t ignore, couldn’t deny, couldn’t wish away.

 

Nevertheless, it hadn’t been until he’d spoken to Ron last week about his Valentine’s Day plans with Hermione that Harry had finally been able to articulate what had bothered him for months, what the Weasley family had proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt: _It’s possible to have your heart in two places at once._

 

It’s possible to feel joy mixed with sorrow. It’s possible to feel love mixed with hate. It’s possible to feel excitement mixed with remorse— and most importantly, it’s _possible_ to move on, even if some distant portion of your soul will always be in the past.

 

As Harry had miserably sat with this numb realization, he’d also accepted (with a horrified lurch of his stomach) that once upon a time, back when Ginny had tried to reason with him, it might’ve been possible for things to have worked between them, too. If he’d been less of an _arsehole_ , if he’d let her in, their relationship could have bloomed with a similar dichotomy, even if he still wasn’t entirely sure he deserved her at all: They could have been the best (and worst) things for each other. They could have been the only two people who would really understand— even if that understanding was tinged with darkness.

 

By early February, Harry knew he’d thoroughly blown any chance with Ginny. Even if her frosty smile over Christmas hadn’t conveyed as much, he _knew_ how much she must loathe him by now. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that being close to her— in any capacity at all— would be better than spending his life entirely alone. In a twist of irony, Harry had realized he was in love with her just when she’d been the furthest from his reach.

 

So he’d written her this morning and tagged along with Ron, although he’d never expected her to actually show up. Every worst-case scenario had flashed through his head, including the possibility that she’d arrive with _Dean_. Or _someone else_. But she hadn’t, though...she’d just come with Hermione...

 

“H-Harry?”

 

Her voice rips him from his thoughts. Her hair is still soaking wet, but her face is more open, less pinched, as it returns to a more natural color. Her lips aren’t _quite_ pink...but they certainly aren’t that ghastly blue they’d been when he’d first gotten her out.

 

Then she shifts, just a bit, and despite the fact that he’s freezing and chattering and that her skin doesn’t feel nearly as warm as it should, Harry lets out the most embarrassing half-moan as her bra-clad brushes against him.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

He slams his eyes shut and digs his toes into the snow beneath his feet, desperately hoping for something—anything— to serve as a greater distraction. He curses himself for somehow managing to actually be _allured_ right now. She’s just fallen beneath the bloody _ice_ , she’s nearly _died_ , she obviously despises him, and some way— some _how_ — he manages to feel stirrings of something he’d prefer not to share.

 

 _Unbelievable_.

 

Of course, there’s a more pressing issue, one he’s not entirely sure how to voice: She’s still wearing a bra and trousers. And they’re _freezing_. He hadn’t taken off his boxers, either, but that had been out of pure decency…and besides, she’d been under the ice _much_ longer than he had. Her jeans are so cold, though, that he can feel sickly cold patch melting against his hip. He’d wager parts of the fabric underneath are covered in ice, too, but that’s something he’s trying very hard not to think about...

 

An especially miserable gust of wind blows through the cave and she shudders beneath him, a whimper on her lips. Harry takes a peek at her pained expression, at the tiny crease between her eyes...and he realizes there isn’t time to be embarrassed.

 

“ _I need you to take off your trousers, bra, and knickers_ ,” he blurts.

 

A shuddering stillness falls between them.

 

“I’m not...I’m not trying to take advantage of you,” he adds, peering at something in the far corner of the cave. “But they’re soaked and freezing, and I’m worried you won’t get warmer until they’re gone.”

 

For a single, horrifying moment he thinks he’s finally gone too far— that she really _would_ rather die than share any degree of intimacy.

 

Then a hoarse, shivering voice sounds from beneath him, and he realizes that he should’ve known better than to assume that Ginny Weasley would ever back down from a challenge.

 

“ _Fair’s fair_.”

 

Harry immediately loses focus on the wall of the cave. “ _What_?”

 

She stops her chattering teeth for one second to arch an eyebrow. “Fair is fair,” she repeats slowly, jerking her head down to where he’s conveniently angled himself against her.

 

Harry sighs. _Of course_.

 

“Fine,” he says simply, shrugging. “But you have three things to take off. I have one.” Truth be told, he’s surprised he’s able to keep up the banter as well as he has; he’s never been very skilled at doing so while she’s close to his...to his _that_.

 

She rolls her eyes in response. “Y-yeah,” she chatters, “that’s usually how it works when you say trousers, bra, _and_ knickers.”

 

Harry fixes her with a sharp stare. He’s growing rather tired of this game. “Ginny. It’s freezing outside. You’ve just plunged beneath the ice. We will both almost _certainly_ be dead if we don’t—“

 

“—fine,” she cuts him off, exasperated. “ _Fine_.”

 

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches a cold, shaking hand down to the lower half of her body and peels the soaked, thick fabric of her jeans away from her skin. Then she attempts to sit up slightly, her face twisted in concentration— and it’s only after several agonizing moments of this that Harry realizes what he needs to do.

 

Oh, _fucking hell_ …

 

His cheeks flood red. “Do you...need help?”

 

Before he’s even finished asking, Ginny answers with a curt nod before adding, “I...I’m trying to get rid of both. At once.”

 

Harry gulps and reaches a hand down to where her hands are hovering. His cold hands graze hers as they do an awkward exchange of positions, and then he feels her hand dropping to her side to allow him space. Harry draws a deep breath, drops his hands to the frigid skin on her waist and pretends all he can feel is the sodden denim...pretends that her knickers don’t feel as smooth and silky as he’s always imagined...

 

Nevertheless, he can’t stop the choked noise from the back of his throat as he slides his fingers beneath the smaller elastic band. After one painful, searching moment, he settles on the memory of how Cedric’s skin had felt at the end of the Third Task and tries his best to relate this to how her skin feels now. _Yeah_... _good_...that’s enough to distract him from wondering if her knickers match the black bra he’d caught a flash of earlier...

 

With renewed determination, he inches the combined layers down a bit more and... _ah yeah,_ there’s the problem. She’s gotten it stuck between her thigh and his stomach. He eases up to free the material and slides her knickers and jeans the rest of the way down her legs, ensuring that they’re both still covered with—

 

“Why are you closing your eyes?” Ginny demands, pulling her arms around her chest.

 

 _Oh_.

 

He gives her a confused look. “I...I hadn’t realized I was.” It’s the truth, as ridiculous as it sounds.

 

Now it’s her turn to give him a plain stare. “ _Harry_ ,” she deadpans. “You’re literally holding my jeans around my ankles. Perhaps the time to _be coy_ has passed, yeah?” She shifts beneath him. “Also, we’re both covered. _By your cloak_.”

 

Harry lets out a startled snort, but doesn’t mention that he’s _also_ holding her knickers. “Point taken.”

 

He stretches his arm as well as he can to finish sliding them off her feet before returning to his previous position. He drops the soaked knicker/jean combination somewhere to the side of the cloak, near the area that’s rapidly getting warmer. She shudders a bit at the change in position, and he realizes a gust of wind must’ve gotten through.

 

He’s about to comment on as much when—

 

“ _D-don’t_ ,” Ginny starts, her teeth chattering. Then she clears her throat and stills the motion of her jaw. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she continues, her mouth set in a firm line. She pops open her eyes, and he’s pleased that her pupils seem less dilated and that the tiniest patch of pink has returned to her complexion.

 

Harry has a brief, foolish moment where he thinks this simply indicates that she’s actually getting warmer, but then Ginny utters eight words that manage to squash that foolish notion as quickly as it had sprung to his mind.

 

_“We both still need to get naked.”_

 

 _Oh_. Her eyes are downcast and she’s not making eye contact... _she’s embarrassed_. He could kick himself. Of course she’s embarrassed— she has to _get bloody starkers!_

 

“ _O-ok_ ,” he stammers, staring at that familiar patch on the wall of the cave. He draws a deep breath and begins negotiating how, exactly, he’s going to broach the subject when Ginny makes a _tutting_ noise from her position beneath him.

 

“Well if the concept is _that_ off-putting...” Ginny says, that cool edge returning to her voice.

 

...Wait, _what_?!

 

Harry jerks his head down to give her an incredulous stare. How could she _possibly_ believe that? _Fuck_. His heart sinks again with a fresh wave of shame. He can’t _believe_ how much he’s ruined things...

 

But then his eyes trail over her face, over the creamy skin of her collarbone that’s still somewhat exposed in the frigid wind, and Harry realizes that there’s an opportunity here to say his piece.

 

“I assure you, that’s not the problem,” he replies gruffly.

 

Ginny narrows her eyes. She doesn’t seem convinced. “ _Well_ ,” she says, “I seem to recall that you’ve taken off my bra before. Not sure what’s stopping you now.”

 

Harry gives a weak chuckle and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But I was shit at that before too, and seeing as how _I’ve_ never done that before or since, I—”

 

“—you _weren’t_ shit at it,” Ginny interrupts, a line of confusion spreading across her brow. “Why do you think you were shit at it?”

 

He snorts, although he thinks the answer is rather self-evident. “That time when I snapped it against your back and left a red mark?”

 

There’s a weird pause.

 

Ginny gives him a wide-eyed, dumbfounded look that seems to stretch on for ages. He shifts uncomfortably, not quite sure exactly what he’s done this time...then, seemingly out of the blue, she rolls her eyes and shivers.

 

He adjusts himself a bit to cover more of her exposed skin, but even being freezing cold isn’t the type of thing that’s ever stopped Ginny from sharing her thoughts.

 

“Aaaand _that’s_ the bloody problem here, Harry.” She tucks her arms more tightly against her sides and gives him another glare. “Y-you always focus so much on _one_ negative detail that you can’t see the b-bigger picture. Do you happen to remember what happened _after_ the bra snapped against my back?”

 

 _That_ would be an understatement. To say that Harry merely _remembers_ would be like comparing an ocean to a puddle. It crosses his mind at least once a day— and it’s something he’s wanked to more times than he can count. He doesn’t think he’ll ever _forget_ the vision of her breasts swaying from her half-opened blouse as she’d straddled him through her skirt. For months afterward, all he’d been able to see when he’d closed his eyes was the sight of her head tilted back as she’d cried out in release…

 

“That’s what I _thought_ ,” she says, annoyed.

 

His straight-faced Auror skills could clearly use some improvement.

 

“T-the fact that you still focus on my _bra_ of all t-things when you obviously made me—”

 

“—Ok, _ok_ ,” Harry says hastily. He feels the need to forestall any further admissions that might make it impossible for him to remain even remotely focused.

 

“ _But_ ,” Ginny adds, drawing her legs in a bit tighter against the wind. “You need to take off your boxers first. _So_.”

 

Harry chuckles. “ _Fine_.”

 

He elevates himself from his perch above her and balances on one arm, slowly sliding the plaid fabric over his jutting hip bones. He’s regained some of the weight he’d lost last year, but Auror training has built muscles where bone used to be.

 

Ginny seems to notice. “Been k-keeping yourself busy, have you?”

 

Harry takes his boxers from his feet and balls them in his right hand. His arms are already aching from the weight of angling himself, but he’ll be damned if he stops holding himself, just here. He’d never _dream_ of making her uncomfortable, even if their options are becoming rather limited.

 

There’s a strange moment of stillness before Harry glances down at her face. Her expression is still drawn and pained, but there’s a bright red eyebrow arched against her pale skin. Oh...she actually expects an _answer_.

 

He shrugs.

 

“What can I say, Ginny?” he says, adjusting the cloak so it’s covering them a bit more. “I lead a _very_ lonely life. Late nights. Lifting weights. All that.”

 

She opens her mouth to make a comment, but he cuts her off at the pass.

 

“But this isn’t _about_ me,” he adds, wiping away frozen water droplet that’s inching down from his hair. “I’ve taken off my boxers. As you said yourself, fair’s fair.”

 

Ginny huffs and rolls her eyes, but then a particularly vicious gust of wind sweeps into the cave. _Fuck_ , that’s freezing— almost as cold as the water had been. It cuts through the cloak faster than Harry had anticipated, although he tries his hardest to shove Ginny beneath him even more. They both cry out (who would’ve known wind could actually be _painful?_ ) but as the wind abates, he realizes he’s done playing games.

 

“O-off,” he says, teeth chattering. “ _Now_ , Ginny. There’s not much I can do if it gets even colder, and—“

 

“ _W-whatever_ ,” she stutters, although her dismissal lacks any real heat.

 

Ginny brings her shaking hand from its position across her chest and arches her back against the stone. Harry swallows as his eyes flit to that far corner of the cave again. He knows he’s blown any chance with her— that much is obvious. It wouldn’t be right to get another glimpse at how perfect and beautiful she is…

 

“ _H-Harry_.” Her voice calls from below him, and for the first time since they’ve emerged from the ice, it sounds _weak_.

 

On instinct, he jerks his head down to stare at her again. Her bra straps are hanging loosely around her shoulders, but she’s biting her lip in concentration.

 

“I...um…” she mutters, eyes downcast.

 

“ _Do you need help again_?” He knows she’s picked up on how deep his voice is.

 

Ginny gives a tiny nod as a crease forms between her eyes.

 

He props himself up on one arm and shudders as he gently, _gently_ eases the black strap down her shoulder. Ginny threads her arm through the rest of the way until it hangs loosely against her.

 

“ _Next_?” he croaks, switching so he’s resting on the other arm. Ginny bites her lip and nods. Harry slides the other strap down, but this time, he makes absolutely no effort to pretend that his erratic breathing has anything to do with the temperature.

 

As soon as the strip of lace is down, Harry averts his eyes. He suspects Ginny does too, but that’s not exactly something he feels he’s entitled to observe.

 

What he _can_ observe, though— without really wanting to— is how she retrieves the soaking, icy garment from her chest...and how, in the next moment, he hears it make a soft _plop_ on the snowy ground. He curses that his teenaged mind can’t stop the thoughts from racing the moment it does.

 

“It’s _gone_ ,” Ginny confirms, drawing herself in closer beneath him. Harry gives a gruff nod, although he hardly needs the reminder. The fact that she’s naked in his arms is something that will never be lost on him.

 

“And _um_ …” she adds, wiggling her bum a bit against the stone. There’s an edge in her voice that tells Harry whatever she’s about to share is both uncomfortable and wholly necessary. “I’m still _really f-fucking cold_.”

 

 _Oh_.

 

Harry has to physically restrain himself from staring at her exposed shoulder and settles for staring into her eyes instead. Not that this helps much.

 

“D-do you want the cloak under you?” he rasps.

 

Ginny firmly shakes her head. “ _No_. Then _you’d_ just be cold, and—”

 

“—but I don’t _care_ if I’m cold,” Harry says fiercely. He can’t fathom that she’s actually thinking about _him_ right now. “Seriously, Ginny. I’ll be fine. _You’re_ the one who went under, and—”

 

Another violent burst of wind whistles through the cave, and they both cry out in pain.

 

And then, through the cutting gust, they stare into each others’ eyes for a pained half-second— and although they don’t exchange a word, Harry hears a singular thought running across his head. Ginny’s pupils get the slightest bit larger as she draws a deep, shuddering breath— and Harry doesn’t know _how_ , he doesn’t know _why_ , but he knows that exact same thought is pounding through her mind, too.

 

_We need to be skin-to-skin._

 

And then they _are_.

 

In one fluid motion, almost as if they’d practiced it, Harry protectively drapes himself across her body as Ginny wraps her arms around his back, tucking her face into his shoulder. They cry out again as their bare skin touches, but it’s not the same horrified, frozen sound they’d made before; this is the sound of finally, _finally_ being allowed to experience what they’ve wanted for so long.

 

The wind abates and Ginny removes her face from his neck, but neither shifts away from the delicious contact of their naked bodies pressed against each other.

 

They’re each breathing heavily now, although Ginny’s deep breaths are still punctuated by the occasional shiver. His long leg is draped between her shorter ones, the contours of his chest grazing against her nipples. And although it’s _the_ most inappropriate time to be considering any of this, he feels his eyes slowly travel to her lips.

 

 _Fuck_. He’s always loved her lips. They’re perfectly-shaped and quirked at the corners (when she’s not freezing cold) and they’re the most perfect, delicious shade of pink. He dimly realizes he hasn’t gotten a good look at her lips, not since he’s mucked things up, so he continues staring a bit pathetically, hoping against hope that this won’t be the last time he gets to see them this closely...

 

She darts out her tongue to moisten them— just a bit— and Harry hears a low moan rumble deep in his chest. Suddenly, it feels like there’s something static hanging between them, some unseen force Harry is incapable of explaining or defining...but he’d bet his life that Ginny feels it, too.

 

Her eyes are getting heavy-lidded, her lips parting just a bit, in a moment that both happens in an instant and goes on forever, Harry knows exactly what is about to happen.

 

_They’re going to kiss._

 

It’s impossible to tell who moves first. Their lips meet halfway, teeth clacking in their haste. The memory of how to kiss her returns as if it had never left— although it hadn’t taken much practice to get it right in the first place. When Ginny’s tongue darts from her mouth and traces his lips, he doesn’t hesitate to remove one of his arms and cup her head closer to his. They kiss deeply, _wantonly_ , like they’ve been starving— like they need each other to survive.

 

Each pass of her lips against his revives him more than any of the frantic breaths he’d taken outside the frozen lake. Ginny fills his lungs, pulses through his veins, permeates through his body more with every passing heartbeat...just as she _always_ has. Just as kissing her has _always_ done.

 

He pulls away, his chest heaving, and begins pressing kisses on the curve of her jaw. Ginny lets out a hiss as she arches her back, and he groans from deep in his throat as her breasts rub against his bare chest. _Fuck_ , they feel brilliant...soft and warm and so much better than he’s ever even imagined. _And he’s imagined._ Harry can’t stop himself from rocking against her a bit, from feeling her nipples brush against his, and when he moves his lips to caress the pulse-point below her ear, Ginny releases the same high-pitched whimper that’s haunted his randiest daydreams since he’d first heard it…

 

As arousing as this little sound is, all soft and pleading and inflamed as it falls from her lips, it does come with a rather unfortunate side effect: It goes _straight_ to his cock.

 

The fact that she turns him on is nothing new, but snogging while fully clothed— when one is actually allowed to shift and balance away from the confines of a traveling cloak— is very different from snogging while completely naked and essentially forced to make skin-to-skin contact.

 

Harry adjust himself to hide the evidence, and for one brief moment, he actually has the nerve to congratulate himself on his deception skills, when—

 

“Don’t you _dare_ do that, Harry Potter,” she barks suddenly. Despite the severity of her tone, her eyes are hooded, _penetrating_ , filled with that same glazed look he’s sure he’s mirroring right back at her.

 

He gives her an apologetic smile and brushes a wet strand of hair from her collarbone. “I just didn’t want to—”

 

“—I don’t _care_.” Ginny’s glaring at him, but he nonetheless and he wonders if she’s heard the unspoken remainder of his thoughts: _I just didn’t want to bother you._

 

Then her chest heaves as she draws another deep breath, and Harry realizes that _yes_ , she knows _exactly_ what he means…

 

“ _For once,”_ she says slowly, and he can tell she’s collecting her thoughts. “ _For once_ , Harry, can you _please_ stop feeling sorry for things beyond your control?” 

 

Her words fall heavy in the air between them, heated space between them.

 

“But _this_ is—”

 

“—It’s _exactly_ the same!” Ginny nearly shouts, and he can tell that he’s about to get the release of pent-up frustration. “It’s the _exact. Fucking. Same_.”

 

She throws her hands in the air, shaking her head in frustration. “I’m _naked_ , I’m pressed up against you, we’re _snogging_ , and honestly, if you weren’t _...excited..._ I’d be more concerned!”

 

A blush spreads from his chest up to his face, but she just gives him an incredulous stare. “For _fuck’s_ sake, Harry….” She trails off with a sigh. “I swear, you’d find a way to take the blame for the bloody _sun_ setting.”

 

He shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. She’s about hit the nail on the head, though.

 

She shifts beneath him. Her coloring is much better, but her words are more cutting than ever before.

 

“This just proves,” she says firmly, her voice a dangerous whisper, “that our relationship _only_ worked because it lasted three weeks.”

 

For several moments, there are no sounds except for the thundering heartbeat in Harry’s ears and the faint whistling outside the cave, a noise that seems 100 times louder than it did just a moment ago. When Harry finally summons the courage to glance down at her face, he knows something unrelated to their current environment is deeply, _deeply_ wrong.

 

Ginny’s wearing an expression he’s sure he’s never seen before. Her swollen mouth is partially open, her pupils are tiny pinpricks of rage, her expression is drawn. _No_...In the pit of his stomach, he knows what this means: Ginny’s _resigned_.

 

His heart plummets. Tears spring to the back of his eyes. He can’t let her feel like this. Not again.

 

A shuddering sob leaves his body, one that travels from his head down to his toes. He knows now what he’s done— _exactly_ why she’s so furious. This reticence to share all of himself is why she’s so frustrated in the first place.

 

What’s worse, though, is that he also knows she’s _completely_ done. And she has every right to be.

 

In retrospect, Harry will realize that some deeply-buried part of him— the same part that instinctively _knows_ her, the same part that always has— knows this, too...because in the next moment, he hears words rip from his throat, unbidden.

 

“ _I’m in love with you_.”

 

He shudders again in numb mortification as his own words wash over him. Still, he supposes it needed to he said— just so she’d _know_. He’s certain he’s ruined everything with her forever. But at least she knows.

 

“ _Liar_.”

 

Ginny’s voice is small and weary against the wind.

 

“If you _were_ in love with me— _if_ you…” She bites her lip, trailing off, and unless Harry’s very much mistaken, tears are starting to form at the corners of her eyes, too. “ _If_ you felt the same way I do,” she croaks, blinking up at the top of the cave, “you’d _know_ why I care about you so much.”

 

_What._

 

Harry stares down at her, his breathing ragged. Had she _seriously_ just…? There’s no _way_ she actually—

 

“What do you mean?” he asks quickly, but she gives no indication she’s even heard him. “ _Ginny_ ,” he repeats, stroking the side of her cheek. “ _Please_.”

 

She just releases a frustrated _huff_ , her eyes fixed skywards. “You’d better start explaining, Potter,” she manages, reaching her hand to wipe a traitorous tear. “Because I’m _really_ fucking sick of getting over you.”

 

Her words pierce through him, so filled with pain and longing that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making some sort of wounded noise from deep in his chest. But somehow, he has this chance...by the grace of _God_ , he has this chance...and he’s not going to blow it.

 

Not this time.

 

So he peers into her face, takes a deep breath, and allows the words to tumble out. As soon as he starts speaking, he realizes that he’s never been this more honest with anyone for as long as he’s lived.

 

“I avoided you because I’m convinced I don’t deserve you. Not even a little bit. I’m also convinced I don’t deserve to be alive, but I _think_ that’s one of those things I’m gradually improving on.” He stares down at the snow that’s melting around Ginny’s hair.

 

To his surprise, she gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. So he continues.

 

“I’d just gotten your brother killed. I’d just gotten loads of your friends killed— friends who’d stayed around when I’d left. And _yeah_ …” He sighs. “I’d been worried about you. I’d spent countless hours on the Horcrux Hunt thinking about you, _hoping_ you were ok, watching your little dot at Hogwarts.”

 

Harry hopes that doesn’t sound as pathetic as he thinks it does. He swallows and picks at a piece of lint on the robe as he collects his thoughts.

 

“You deserve to be _happy_ ,” Harry says simply. “Happier than you might be with someone like me. And I thought if I decided to get involved, I’d ruin all that.”

 

He chances a peek at her face. She’s much more lifelike than she’d been before— but she’s also _angrier_.

 

“And when I snogged you?” she demands, her voice a low warning. “ _Multiple_ times? What was I supposed to think of that, Harry?”

 

He winces. This bit is a little awkward— but there’s no time for such nonsense now.

 

“Well, to be honest,” he starts, and he can already feel his face burning. “There were two issues there. The first being that I spent _most_ of last year fantasizing about you, which immediately made things um…” He clears his throat uncomfortably.

 

“ _Hard_?”

 

He can almost hear the corners of her lips twitching, but Harry isn’t nearly as embarrassed as he thought he’d be. So he just shrugs and plows on.

 

“And the second issue,” he starts again, running a hand through an ice chunk that’s still stuck to the side of her face. He swallows and looks at her. “The second issue...the bigger issue...was that my final thought before I’d _died_ was what your lips felt like on mine.”

 

With that, something feels different in the air, like a tide has turned. There are still a thousand questions in her eyes, but the look on her face has been replaced with something gentle, tender, even _coaxing_.

 

A miserable gust forces him to arch himself over her body, but this time, he touches his forehead to hers in the process. Ginny tilts her head up to get closer to him too, and the rise and fall of her chest tells him that something he’s said has gotten through.

 

As soon as the wind subsides, she starts speaking. “What about Grimmauld Place then?” she asks— but she sounds thoughtful. _Understanding_ , even. “Why did you just let me leave after I’d spilled my life story?”

 

Harry sighs. He’d always known it would come to this.

 

“When you came to Grimmauld Place,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You basically confirmed my worst fears— I know you didn’t mean to,” he adds hastily at the horrified expression on her face. “I _know_ you didn’t mean to, Ginny...but when you talked about how miserable things were, it just proved I was making the right choice.

 

“I’d made a colossal mess and expected you to _live_ in it. I’d always suspected I didn’t deserve to lead a normal life. Not only had I make your year miserable, but you’d spent the whole time fighting— and for me! And to think, your life _should_ have been normal, _would_ have been normal…”

 

Suddenly, he feels a cold, shaky hand caress the side of his face. Harry glances down, a little confused. Ginny’s brow is furrowed, her mouth gently parted, and he knows he’s either said something dreadfully wrong or completely right— but he can’t quite ascertain which.

 

He’s content to continue this delicate, aching stare until she begins speaking again.

 

“Then _w-why_ ,” Ginny asks, “did you contact me _today_?”

 

Harry adjusts his weight again...and now, he reckons, is when finally, _finally_ explains. He tells her all about the _mixed feelings_ and about how he hadn’t understood someone could feel _tugged_ in so many different directions and about how he’d never really gotten that you could both want love and be utterly afraid of what that might mean.

 

When he finishes, she’s giving him an appraising glance.

 

“So...to recap,” she says, her voice strong despite the shiver running through it. “You _avoided_ me because you felt like you didn’t deserve me. _Then_ , you suddenly decided to pull your head out of your arse and see me— but you’re still somehow convinced you don’t deserve to love someone who loves you.”

 

The wind howls outside again.

 

Harry feels his pulse thundering again in his ears as his heart soars, but he doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want to push _her..._

 

“I’m in love with a fucking _idiot_ ,” she mutters. Then, without an ounce of warning, Ginny stares into his eyes, arches her back, and captures his lips with hers.

 

Harry releases a startled cry against her mouth, but doesn’t hesitate to respond in kind. He knows he’s kissed her less than an hour ago, but _fuck_ , it’s even more amazing and inflaming and brilliant than it was the first time.

 

He must be a lunatic, then, to pull away as fast as he does.

 

“ _—wait_.” He rips away, panting. “Before we keep doing...whatever this is,” he says emphatically. “I _need_ to know where this is going. I...I _have_ to.” He stares down at her. “I’m not wasting another second of my life without stating my intentions.”

 

Ginny sniffs. She looks remarkably composed, he thinks, for someone who’s just lunged at him.

 

“Well, luckily for you, Potter,” she drawls, brushing her lips against his jaw as she speaks again. “I happen to be the _only_ person alive who’s willing to tolerate your sorry arse. Even if you _did_ just save me.”

 

His face splits into a wide, jubilant grin— the first time he’s truly smiled in longer than he can remember.

 

“S-so,” he stutters, tucking her hair behind her ear. He has to be certain. “So...you’ll be my girlfriend?”

 

He hates that he sounds like a squeaky first year asking for the loo. If Ginny picks up on this, though, she doesn’t comment.

 

Instead, she just waves her hand dismissively. “Girlfriend. Wife. Whatever. _Not_ that this is a proposal,” she adds archly. “But if we’re _both_ finally ready to make this work— and if you actually promise to communicate?” She rests a hand on his cheek and cocks her head. “Yeah. I don’t see why not. _Eventually_.”

 

Harry stares at her for a full beat before actually processing what she’s saying. She’s willing to be his. _His_. To give him another chance— although he doesn’t deserve it, not in the least. She understands him...like always, she bloody _understands_ him...and he’s not going to waste another moment allowing her to believe otherwise.

 

He releases a primal growl and bends down to kiss her again. This time, he moves with absolutely no hesitation. His lips claim hers possessively, _wantonly_ , and she responds with fervor, actively pressing her bare breasts to his chest, molding her hips into his. Harry lets out a startled hiss as the flat plane of stomach grazes his erection, but for the first time, he does nothing to hide it...he has nothing _left_ to hide.

 

He’s fully aware that they’re in a position far more intimate than they’ve ever been, one that is skirting the edge of something he’d very much like to do with her, _someday_ , but one he’s nonetheless confident neither one of them is actually ready for…

 

Another sudden wind burst takes the air from his lungs. Harry drops on the spot and presses himself on top of her, covering as much of her body as he can, although his prominent arousal makes this harder than he’d anticipated. He winces a bit as it jabs into her belly, but he quickly adjusts himself so it’s lying flat.

 

It’s not until Ginny gives out a low, breathy sort of moan from below him that he even realizes what he’s _doing_ as he shifts back and forth.

 

“Oh, _Merlin_ , Harry…” Her eyes roll back as a flush creeps up her chest, and it’s not until then that Harry registers how part of him is rubbing right against her— “ _Doitagain_ ,” she slurs, pressing herself even more firmly against his chest, and Harry feels powerless to stop from rubbing against her in the exact same way.

 

Ginny answers with a purr, and Harry decides that’s his new favorite sound. He’s rather committed to hearing it again, but unfortunately he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing...and after several more inexpert passes of his hips, Ginny grows a bit impatient. He’s not surprised when she lifts her legs and wraps them around his bare backside; she’s never hesitated to communicate precisely what she needs.

 

She adjusts herself until his cock resting against her folds— but then she gives him a sharp stare. “We’re _not_ going to shag,” she says firmly, and Harry rushes to agree.

 

“No, no...that’s fine! I-I never _thought_ we’d—honestly, we’ve already done more today than I’d—“ She silences him with a finger over his lips.

 

“But,” she adds, as if he’s never spoken. “I think we can find a way to make nearly freezing to death a bit more enjoyable.”

 

Then she proceeds to tilts her hips, just a bit...and it turns out that this is the most brilliant thing Harry’s ever felt in his entire life.

 

 _“Giiiii— ohholybuggeringhell.”_ The words tumble from his mouth as she begins to rock herself against him, sliding the underside of his cock exactly where she needs it, using the slick friction to bring herself off.

 

 _Ginny Weasley is using_ his cock _to bring herself off._

 

Harry can barely breathe, but he doesn’t dare to question it: Part of him (and _that_ part of him) is touching the place he’s only fantasized about. How is it possible that this is _his_ life?

 

He shudders as she pants and presses her hand on top of him, applying more pressure to her clit. _Fuck,_ she’s wet...when in hell had she gotten that wet?

 

He can’t stop the groan from crawling up the back of his throat as she begins to move in earnest, her lips parted, her cheeks pink, like she’s chasing a goal only she can see. He’s happy to help her...happier than he’s _ever_ been. Perfectly content to just be there, in her presence, as she takes whatever she needs. Naturally, it doesn’t hurt matters that whatever she’s doing with her hips feels absolutely _amazing_...

 

“ _Harry_ ,” she moans suddenly, popping her eyes open as she continues moving.

 

“Yes, love?” he murmurs, his voice a little shaky and delirious; he’s not entirely sure if his name was meant to be rhetorical.

 

“I think about to— I’m going to—“ She clenches her hands against her sides, her chest bright red. But it’s like she’s holding on, like she’s waiting for permission to—

 

“ _Come_ for me, Ginny.”

 

He’s not sure _where_ he gets the nerve to issue that command, exactly...but he somehow knows it’s just what she needs.

 

In the very next moment, she follows. 

 

She throws her head back and emits the most delicious cry, one that sends gooseflesh up and down his spine. And if the sound alone weren’t enough, he can actually _feel_ her rippling against the underside of his cock as she continues to slide. A white-hot flare of protectiveness flashes across his vision, and the next thing he knows, Harry’s draped himself over her even more firmly as she rides out the aftershocks of her release.

 

It’s not until she draws a final, shuddering breath and removes her legs from around his waist that Harry permits his mind to wander to his own needs. He’s thoroughly aroused of course, embarrassingly close to the edge, actually, but he’s nonetheless content to simply lie here and wait until he can wank.

 

He supposes he should’ve known that Ginny has no intention of letting him do that: A tentative hand grazes the head of his cock, and he involuntarily feels his hips thrusting forward.

 

“I don’t...I’ve never done this,” Ginny admits, biting her lip— and for some sick reason, this makes him deliriously happy.

 

“It’s— it’s ok,” he says reassuringly, staring into her eyes. “You’re already doing brilliantly, really, but if you want to stop, that’s _okkk_ —“ He cuts off with a low groan as her fist starts to pump.

 

“ _Show_ me, Harry,” she whispers, leaning up to kiss his jaw. “I want to...but I need you to _show_ me.”

 

Harry nods and rolls to his side for the first time since they’ve been in the cave. He reaches a shaking hand down to cover the one she’s got wrapped around him, and he begins sliding both of their joined hands up and down. His head falls back and he lets out a groan. Merlin...even though the process is largely the same, he can’t help but marvel at how much _better_ this feels when he’s doing it with someone else…when he’s doing it _with Ginny_.

 

Soon, he feels himself go slack-jawed as his eyes roll to the back of his head. He _can’t_ hold on...this can’t possibly last much longer...and then Ginny leans in to nibble at his jaw, her breath tickling his neck, and he’s _right there_. He uses his last ounce of composure to remove her hand and twist to the side before he finishes with a low moan, right on a patch of snow.

 

Harry’s still panting, eyes closed, when he returns to his body several minutes later. She’s pressing soft kisses to his eyelids and tender hand sweeps across the curve of his jaw.

 

“Hey,” she whispers, her skin glowing just like it had that day last April. 

 

“ _Hey_ ,” he replies, making no effort to avoid looking besotted and soppy. “Guess you’re properly warmed, then?”

 

She playfully rolls her eyes and swats him on the chest. It’s still cold, but their combined...efforts...have made things a bit warmer.

 

”Why did you um…” Ginny makes a vague gesture to the ground, but it’s not until her cheeks start to redden that Harry cottons on to what she means.

 

 _Oh_.

 

He laughs and rubs a hand down his face. “I uh...didn’t want to get you messy?”

 

Ginny gives him an incredulous look. “Harry...you’ve just saved me from a pond. I’m covered in muck and dirt and grime and—“

 

“ _Exactly_.” He smooths her hair back. “Didn’t want you to be covered with _this_ , too.”

 

She giggles and folds into his embrace just as his mind starts to wander to other activities she might be content to explore, too, until help arrives.

 

The two of them remain so cozy, so wrapped in each other, that they don’t hear the distant cries of their names thundering from the path outside.

 

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice calls from the mouth of the cave. “Gin— _oh god_!” She releases a high-pitched squeal as she audibly turns on her feet, the snow crunching beneath her.

 

Harry and Ginny stare at each other in wide-eyed horror before they slam their bodies together, wrapping the cloak as tightly as they can.

 

“They uh...they’re here!” Hermione squeaks, shielding her eyes. “And…” She bites her lip. “They’re _fine_! I promise! No need to come any closer!”She quickly removes her wand and summons help from the village— just as Harry should’ve done ages ago.

 

But her boyfriend’s going to need more proof than that. Not that Harry blames him. He only catches a glimpse of Ron’s bright red hair at the entrance of the cave before...

 

“What the— _OH BLOODY_ —“ Ron swears and turns about-face, just as Hermione had.

 

Ginny adjusts herself beneath Harry, and with a hint of pride, he notes that she’s not the least bit embarrassed.

 

“Stay away from the edge of the water!” she calls. “Our wands are in there!”

 

“Yeah,” agrees Harry thoughtfully, and then adds: “Oh, and by the way— _there’s a bloody frozen lake_!”

 

Ron groans, still averting his eyes. “I guess...at least the two of you were... _together_?”

 

Hermione giggles, but makes no effort to turn around, either. Harry’s sure she’ll fill him in on the details.

 

“Definitely together,” Ginny agrees, stroking Harry’s cheek. He gives her a gentle kiss— but then he’s powerless to stop the stupidest thing he’s ever said from slipping past his lips.

 

“Well,” he says with a wry grin. “I suppose that’s _one way_ to break the ice.”


End file.
